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[ Dazai, Chuuya: 8 years old] 

“This costume is dumb.”

“What?! You are dumb!”

“You are. And no one is going to even see Chuuya– hey!”

Dazai manages to duck just in time, side-stepping the dried leaves that have been thrown in his direction.
To be fair, Chuuya is tiny.
So tiny that, swaddled in his black cape, he disappears behind the new mountain of dried leaves he racked up from the ground.
His little hands sink in red leaves, spotted with mud.

Chuuya would protest that he’s not a boy, though. 

Just for tonight, just for Halloween, he is a witch. 

Wild, fiery red hair peeks out from his black hood, the fabric secured together under his chin by a ribbon of the same color as his pumpkin basket.
Dazai prepares to move out of the leaves’ trajectory again, but the other child seems to think against it. He drops the leaves and lets out a little, scorned hmpf as a rain of yellow, red and brown falls to his feet, covering the sidewalk. 

“You’re not worth it,” Chuuya declares, sticking his tongue out. “Iiii-diot.”

“Sorry, I can’t see Chibi without a microscope.”

“You’ll see,” Chuuya cries, holding onto his pumpkin-shaped basket. “I’m just eight! I’m still growing!”

In response, Dazai sighs. 

You see: Dazai Osamu’s life is suffering. 

All his grievances started when he met Nakahara Chuuya. 
They’ve always been in the same class, and Dazai can’t explain the reason. It must be poor luck: he and Chuuya just seemed to find each other. They just work together, they always have: they read the same books, like the same video games. 
Their families started to get along well enough to organize field trips and activities, dragging along Chuuya’s older sister and Dazai’s cousin Elise. 

And there is nothing nice, nothing easy, in the way Dazai needs Chuuya to be his friend. 

It’s a physical need, like being hungry or sleepy. It’s deep.

It’s scary. 

The perspective of facing the future alone, just one kid against the world, terrifies Dazai.
Monsters never spooked him and he outgrew his fear of the dark long ago, but he fears a world without his friend.

That said, he’s not ecstatic about having to wear the same dumb costumes for Halloween. 

Dazai shrugs, adjusting the cuffs of his white shirt under the black cape. Chuuya is wearing a brick red hoodie under his own cape. “Ne, Chuuya?”

Chuuya halts. “Huh?” 

“We’re witches, are we not?”

“Yes…?”

Dazai hides an impish smile behind the back of his hand. “Then I curse Chibi to stay forever short,” he says. Chuuya gawks at him, horrified. “I heard kids only grow until ten anyway~”

“Eh? Liar!”

“I swear.”

“He is a liar,” a thin voice adds from their side.

Dazai has to lower his gaze to meet the boy who has been sitting on the stone steps all along, shrouded in white and reading a book in disinterested silence.
The voice that just accused him of lying (he isn’t, by the way. He’s joking. There’s a difference) is also the whole reason why Dazai is so unhappy about the trick or treating. 

“See?!” Chuuya says, putting his hands on his hips. “Fedya knows, too!”

Stupid Dostoyevsky. 

Most kids in their class get a pass on calling Dostoyevsky by his first name because they can’t pronounce his surname properly, but Chuuya calls him Fedya like they are friends.
As if a weird kid like Fyodor is somehow likable. 

Dazai would rather eat the mud in their school’s sandbox than act familiar with that rat. 

“Why are you here again?” Dazai groans. 

Dostoyevsky keeps his eyes on the open book on his lap. He’s focused, nose sinking deeper inside the page with every minute.
The words are written in Russian, all crammed together in a tiny font Dazai can’t decipher. He’s wearing white, with a pale ushanka covering his dark hair – and he looks sick, Dazai supposes, although that’s not his problem. 

If DosRat stays sick, then he won’t bother Chibi at school.

Dostoyevsky shrugs the comment away as if Dazai had not said anything at all. “Chuuya invited me.”

“But I don’t want you.” 

“I’m sorry.” They both know Dostoyevsky is not sorry: he hates Dazai just as much as Dazai hates him. They are sworn enemies, after all. 

“What even is your costume? Boredom?” 

“I’m a winter ghost,” Dostoyevsky answers in a colorless voice. 

Ugh.

“Ahhh? That’s so stupid.”

“Ahhh! That’s so clever!” Chuuya squeals at the same time.

Dazai’s heart drops to his stomach, and he almost drops his basket.
That’s terrible. The Chibikko is betraying him at every turn to side with a rat wearing a boring costume.

Side-glancing at his best friend, Dazai twists his lips in distaste. “Why are you so impressed? Chuuya was the one who insisted on dressing as witches.”

Chuuya blinks wide, perplexed eyes at him, so uncharacteristically honest that Dazai feels warmth crawling up his neck and cheek.

"Of course. Because I wanted to match with 'Samu."

Ah. 

He's cute.

Fifty years from now, Dazai wishes he could open up this memory and see the thousand stars gleaming in Chuuya's eyes on this chilly October afternoon all over again. 

Maybe he will write about those eye-stars later.
He’ll write it in his notebook. He’ll remember it forever.

But the comment spiked Dostoyevsky’s attention too, and Dazai hates it. 

Chuuya scowls at the awkward silence that stretches between them, grabbing the ledge of his black hood and tugging it in front of his forehead. “Oi, did I say something weird?”

“Chuuya is such a kid,” Dazai mutters, turning away.

“Eh?! Why?!”

“Nothing, nothing~”

Dazai ignores the protest, side-stepping another bullet of dried leaves that Chuuya shoots full-force in his direction. Some leaves fall on Dostoyevsky’s book, but the child doesn’t comment.
He doesn’t get angry, either.

Unlike every other child in their class, Dostoyevsky never gets angry — he never speaks up, he never cries or laugh or screams, and that might be the only thing in Dazai’s life that might bother him for real. 

Fyodor Dostoyevsky is weird, and Dazai doesn’t like him.

Not even a little bit. 

Not even for Chuuya.

“Ano ne, you rat~” he calls to Dostoyevsky, swirling in place and opening his arms to showcase the black cape and white shirt, as well as the blue fabric on the inside. “Chuuya and I have matching costumes. Did you see?” 

Violet eyes fix on him, although Fyodor hardly blinks.

“It was hard not to notice.”

“Are you jealous?”

“Why should I be? All you have is an empty basket and a cape that looks dumb on you.”

Dazai preens. Maybe he does look dumb, but it’s with Chuuya — and that’s still a win over the rat.

“You have a book. You’re such a loser, taking a book to trick or treating.” 

“Chuuya wanted to hear Russian.”

What!? Betrayal!

“Ugh,” Dazai growls. “Whatever. That doesn’t make you smart.”

“I am smart,” Dostoyevsky answers, his unreadable gaze lingering on Dazai’s face. It’s so unnerving, Dazai thinks. To be honest, he’s not fully sure about the term ‘unnerving,’ yet; all he knows is that’s what Mori calls him under his breath when Dazai challenges him. That’s never a good thing. “I’m smarter than you. Sensei said that.”

Dazai grins. “Yet I’ve been the best in our class before. Twice in a row.”

“And I could solve the math problem you couldn’t even start.”

“I’m sensei’s favorite,” Dazai counters.

“I know four languages.”

“And I remember the Genji Monogatari by heart.”

Fyodor squints. “That’s a lie.”

It is.

“That’s–”

“But you both failed PE, didn’t you?” Chuuya interjects. 

It’s so simply merciless that Dazai’s spirit crumbles like a house of cards.
He’s shaking as he turns to face the other child, eyes burning with sudden, shocked tears.

Damn, Chuuya! 

Remembering how Sensei gave him (and Fyodor! Ah!) extra exercises to make up for his poor results in the gym makes Dazai want to puke.

Next to him, Dostoyevsky falls silent all the same. 

“But, Chibi,” Dazai whines. “Why would you point that out?”

Chuuya’s frown deepens. “Well, it’s true.”

“Chuuya’s right,” Dostoyevsky hums, gaining a smile from the kid. 

Dazai hates him for it.
He hates that Dostoyevsky is quick to admit his wrongdoings to make Chuuya smile, and he hates that Chuuya never calls the stinky rat silly or an idiot.
He never throws leaves at him the way he does with Dazai, he doesn’t pester him to share his food like he does with Dazai.

It’s unfair.

For a moment, Dazai feels outnumbered. He clings to his own pumpkin basket, still empty, and tries to fight the obnoxious pang in his heart.
He knows he has to share him – Chuuya has many friends and a nice family, after all. He’s not alone all the time like Dazai – but it’s hard.

There’s Mitsuru, and Tachihara, and Fyodor. 

Although Mori told him not to be greedy, Dazai struggles to wrap his head around the fact that Chuuya does not belong to him.
His best friend is also someone else’s friend, because that’s how the world goes.

That’s something people have to learn, Mori says.

But–

Before he can finish the thought, Chuuya takes his free hand.
Too busy staring at his shoes, the sudden touch takes the brunet aback and almost makes him cry.

He has little hands, Chuuya, and a firm grip. 

“Come on, ‘Samu,” he says. “We better get going. You wanted chocolate, didn’t you?”

Dazai pouts. “Why do you care? You have another friend now.”

At that, Chuuya tilts his head to the side. Then, he nods deeply. 

“Hm-m. I like Fedya—“

See?!

And Dazai doesn’t care anyway.
Why should he?
If he has to share Chuuya, he will… but Chuuya will have to share him too.
See if the Chibikko likes that. He’ll play with Gin instead.
He’ll find other friends too.

“—and you are dumb.”

Dazai blinks, taken aback by Chuuya’s harsh words and deep scowl. 

“…What?”

“You are dumb, “Samu.” He squints, holding onto his hand. “I like you most in the world.”

And there’s something special, in the way Chuuya says it – as if he doesn’t care if anybody else follows as long as they are holding hands – that causes Dazai’s heart to beat faster in his chest.

He says ‘friend’ as if he doesn’t care about others, as long as Dazai is there.

For a moment, as he clings to his best friend’s hand, Dazai forgets about his rivalry with Dostoyevsky, about the extra exercises, about trick or treating and everything else.

Chibi could truly be a witch because, suddenly, Dazai doesn’t mind it too much if Dostoyevsky’s ghastly figure walks on the other side of Chuuya.

It’s his hand Chuuya is holding.

It’s with him that Chuuya promises to share all the chocolate.

It’s them, two adventurers against the world of grown-ups.

As he hopes to have a hundred more Halloweens like this one, Dazai’s hand holds onto Chuuya’s.

It’s nice to have a friend. A forever friend.

—

[ Dazai, Chuuya: 19 years old] 

“Happy Halloween, o’nii-san!” Mitsuru is smiling on the other end of the video call, with black cat whiskers painted on her pale cheeks. “I miss you!”

Chuuya adjusts on the bed, sitting cross-legged in front of his phone’s screen. 

“Halloween was yesterday for you,” he says, quiet amusement laced in his voice. 

“Same difference. Party’s today, so it feels like Halloween is today.”

Chuuya scoffs.

That’s what you get when your older sister gets accepted in a university program of so-called geniuses (read, ridiculously smart nerds): they think they can move festivities according to their study schedules.
His sister and her friends just couldn’t fit Halloween into their lives, therefore Halloween has to be adjusted according to their availability and convenience.
Mitsuru moved to Yokohama three months ago to attend a special program for highly promising students. She got herself quite the group of friends, all smart. All boring. She lost her kansai accent.
She started dressing with a classy, old-money vibe to it.

And in all of that, Chuuya can’t even say shit because… he’s not there. He’s in Paris, and he’s alone.

“Right. How’s the party?”

The girl waves away the question, dismissing it with a disappointed sound from the back of her throat. “Sadly no one’s drunk yet. A few people still have to show up and Tsujimura has popped out to buy some snacks, but it looks like a chill night. Maybe. Unless Odasaku shows up and decides to get drunk, then it’s going to be fun.” 

Although Chuuya hums in agreement, he has no idea about who Odasaku is. 

As she talks, gesturing vaguely to the crowd in the house, Chuuya clocks a tall boy in the background: brown hair neatly kept in a ponytail, tall, muscular.

He’s wearing a white tee that is supposed to showcase abs that should be illegal outside of an Abercrombie commercial. It’s the kind of guy that Chuuya knows before he meets him – an outsider in Mitsuru’s world.
It's way too easy to pinpoint his musky cologne, his dad’s fancy car, how he likes his smoothie in the morning and how he spends time training for whatever club he's part of instead of studying.

It’s the kind of person you just know.
And Chuuya  doesn’t fail to notice how, for a second, his sister forgets about him to follow the guy’s trail, mouth twitching up in a smile.

“So... wanna share who’s Beefcake over there?” Chuuya asks.

“Ah, Fujiwara!” Mitsuru’s eyes gleam as she whispers the name, casting one stealth glance at the boy. As she says that she scurries to a more private corner of the kitchen, far from where the guests have gathered to chat. “Hands off, Chuuya. He's mine. I’ve got my eyes on him.”

“He’s kinda cute.”

She smiles. “Isn’t he? He’s a total dream.” She says it as if the boy is hers already, gesturing at one of her roommates to settle a bag of chips on the table. “You have a party coming up too?”

“Yup.”

“Be careful. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Chuuya tuts. “Huh, let’s see… Would you do something like Fujiwara? Because I would.”

“Chuuya!”

“I’m joking, I’m joking. He’s all yours. And I have plans, anyway,” he says, not without a tinge of pride. He’s always wanted to live wild, and being stuck in Japan never allowed him to. “Is Ranpo-san there already? I want to meet the guy who trashed my sis at the entrance exam.”

Mitsuru scrunches her nose. “To beat him up, I hope,” she says, her words sour despite the smirk tugging at her lips.

“I wouldn’t dream of beating up your friends.”

“He’s not my friend. He’s someone I moderately stand.” She smiles. “I wish you were here, y’know.”

Chuuya’s expression softens. It’s new to have Mitsuru acting so openly cute. 

And he… hell.

He’s been living in Paris for long enough to forget how his own home smells.
He forgot the scent of the air, the hugs of his dads, the sun bathing his high school’s yard. His sister’s long curls under his hands when he brushed her hair before a party.
They used to sneak out together to parties all the time.

It feels like another life, now. 

Because Chuuya might be nineteen and chasing fame on the other end of the world but, on nights like tonight, he misses home.

“Me too.” 

Mitsuru sighs, her sweet eyes turning darker and sad for a split second.

Her head falls forward a little as if she’s asking for a hug, and Chuuya moves the phone as if that could make his sister closer.
To feel closer to home. 
But then, just before she can talk, her attention gets stolen by something happening at the periphery of the kitchen, out of the screen.

The specks of blue in her dark eyes twinkle. 

“Ah, here he is— Dazai? Dazai?! Look who’s here. Say hi!” She beams in Chuuya’s direction. “I have a surprise! Guess who got accepted this semester.”

Chuuya’s blood runs cold. 

No, he thinks, no fucking way.

There was no sign of moving cities in Dazai’s Instagram, last time Chuuya not-so-stalked him. He should be completing his bachelor’s degree in Kyoto, not studying for an elite super-course — but then again, Dazai was always the genius.
He always blindsided Chuuya.

Helpless and strangled, the redhead sees the rustle of the phone being handed to someone else rather than hearing it.
The drumming of his heartbeat and the blood rushing in his temples deafens him for a second. 

Then, a pair of unfamiliar amber irises gawk at him.

It’s odd how Chuuya knows those eyes and yet doesn’t.

Dazai looks at the phone with wide eyes, shaggy bangs falling over his forehead, and parts his lips. Once, twice.

He doesn’t speak, staring as if the device might explode in his hands.
His eyes are darting to the side, silently pleading for someone outside the screen to help him, when Chuuya takes pity on him.

“Yo.”

“Ah,” Dazai says. 

Articulate, for a shitty genius.

Chuuya scowls.
Yeah, he’s wearing a dark smokey eye and lipstick, but he’s not that unrecognizable.

(The idea of Dazai forgetting his face makes Chuuya’s stomach churn.)

“Oi, shithead, did you forget me? I’m Chuuya,” he encourages, hating how stupid he sounds as he introduces himself. 

The name seems to pinch the brunet.

“What— Of course, I remember you,” he says, his pout melting in a smirk. “We spoke like, six months ago.” Ah, that. It was a short, dry ‘how are you?’ type of conversation that died out after two DMs. “I was just surprised. Mitsuru dropped you on me.” 

Chuuya’s smile softens. “She does that, yeah. Makes me say hi to random strangers.”

Are you a random stranger, now?

Dazai’s jaw twitches, though Chuuya can’t quite tell if it’s a chuckle or a scoff. “How dare she.” 

“I know. Unbelievable.” 

“You seem well, Chuuya. Your hair has become longer since the last time I saw you.”

Your shitty ‘last time we saw each other’ was six years ago, Chuuya wants to snarl. He shouldn’t remember so vividly the one time he bumped into Dazai by accident, but the sense of shame stuck with him.
So yes, of course my hair is longer.
And your eyes are clearer. 
And you look prettier. How dare you look so pretty and be straight? 

He swallows it all back, though, because this distance is as much his fault as it is Dazai’s. 

They never kept in touch after Dazai fell off the radar in middle school. Then, Chuuya moved to Paris. 

Life never made it easier for them but, in a world of boyfriends that felt like new clothes never quite fitting him, Dazai always was the old, loved, familiar pair of jeans.

His first love. His first kiss.

And no matter the distance and the silence, the ghost of that first crush always stayed somewhere in Chuuya’s closet.
He kept him company when the redhead was stuck in there, and cheered him up when he felt lost outside of it. 

Dazai was always the benchmark. 

“Yours too,” Chuuya hums, swallowing dry and forcefully pulling himself outside his brain. “And you have something on your neck.”

“Ah, yes. The bandages.” Dazai smirks, although a certain stiffness in his posture makes it obvious that he’d rather avoid the subject. “It’s not a costume, actually. Long story.”

“Are you hurt or something?”

Dazai winces, and his left hand finds the edge of the gauze covering his neck. He tugs at it as if he’s picking at his skin. “It’s a long story,” he repeats. 

Chuuya can take a hint. 

“Huh, ok. If you say so.”

The grin Dazai shoots him is forceful. Fake. Or maybe that’s just how Dazai is now.

“You’re dressed as a witch,” he says, in an obvious attempt to divert the conversation. “Again.”

Mechanically, Chuuya stretches his arm to showcase the cheap black cape hanging open over a black crop top.

Definitely an upgraded, sluttier witch, but Chuuya is not eight anymore. 

Besides, he’s single and in Paris — a city where he is technically an adult.
Meaning he’s gonna be ill by the end of the night, no doubt, but it’s gonna be worth it. He’s gonna get drunk and he’ll wake up in the bed of some guy who is incidentally tall and brunet and smart in a cutthroat, somewhat degrading way. 

Toying with the silence, Chuuya hesitates.

Part of him would like to mention the old witch idea, reminisce about the past perhaps, but he is too pissed at Dazai for ghosting him. He’s pissed at himself.

“Yeah. France likes witches, or so it seems.”

Dazai snorts.
It’s a cute sound, Chuuya thinks; it's like a puppy growling. 

“Does it?”

“Yeah. You could visit, y’know. Get your lanky ass on a plane and come see me.”

“I would love to.” From the way he hesitates, Chuuya knows Dazai is lying. Someone cries something in the kitchen that sounds vaguely like “I have a trolley ready”, causing Dazai to smile sheepishly. “My girlfriend is saying she would like that too.” 

Ah, and that totally didn’t hurt. 

“What about you? Did your girlfriend pick your outfit?” Chuuya volleys back.

It’s not bitter or unkind, but it’s awkward.
He sees Dazai swallow, raising a hand to rub his nape. “Nah. All by myself, like a big boy.”

“Aw, good job,” Chuuya says.

“Thanks. ‘Means a lot from a pipsqueak who can’t reach the upper shelves.”

“Ha?! I grew, you ass! I got taller!”

“Hm-m, sure. Do you still use a stool to reach the sink?” 

That bastard?!

“How–”

“You still get mad like that,” Dazai interrupts him, with a light chuckle that settles itself under Chuuya’s skin. It was always pastel, Dazai’s laughter — delicate, like a puff of thin light blue dust. Time might have changed them, but it didn’t change the way Dazai giggles. “You planning on coming back anytime soon?”

Ah, shit.
Even if Dazai is just being polite, the question sends a rush of annoyance down Chuuya’s body. 

“Not sure. Maybe Golden Week.”

“Oh. Cool,” Dazai says.

The comment is so dry that Chuuya considers in passing the possibility to comment that Dazai could use some lube, but he’s not sure his very straight, very I-never-got-over-you former best friend would appreciate it.

“Yeah.”

“So— I really need to help out and grab some more snacks, or your sister is going to chew my head off. I’m sorry Chuuya, I promise I will text more. Maybe we can have a call at some point?”

You’re the one always occupied, Chuuya thinks to himself with the subtlest tinge of regret. 

Then again, he’s also the one who fucked off to Europe and refused Mitsuru’s invitation to fly back to visit once she moved to Yokohama.
There’s always a shooting, always a catwalk he can’t miss – that he doesn’t want to miss.

Dazai is the one who left first, but Chuuya raised the bar to ‘another whole ass continent’. 

Maybe they deserved to lose sight of each other.

They never really tried, did they? 

And there was never just a town or just an ocean, between them.
It was never about physical distance alone: time tore them apart.

Ever since they turned ten and Dazai transferred, Chuuya always felt an underlying silence between them that his kid-self could never quite decipher.

He always headbutted against a wall he could never push through, and that Dazai never lowered.

“Yeah,” Chuuya says, though, mustering a smile. “A call sounds good.” If Dazai notices that it’s not Chuuya’s truest smile, he doesn’t mention it. What would be worse? If Dazai didn’t notice, or if he didn’t care about it enough to comment? “Don’t be a stranger.”

“You too, Chi— Chuuya.”

“Bye, Dazai.”

We should have a call and catch up. 

Chuuya plays with the words in his head after the call disconnects, wondering when he stopped meaning them.
Living without Dazai is second nature, now, as if they were never friends. 

Frowning, Chuuya glances at the corner of his room.
An old teddy bear rests slumped on a chair, and its beady eyes seem to mock him. 

“Have you seen this shit, ‘Samu?” He growls. “Maybe it’s high time I throw you away.”

But he never does, just like Dazai never calls and neither of them ever follows up.
‘Samu always follows him on his travels, the namesake of a friendship that Chuuya is quick to bury in the back of his mind.

He keeps the teddy bear with him when he’s abroad, when he needs familiarity, only to return it to the attic whenever he’s home.
Mitsuru will never know.

His dads pretend not to notice.
Chuuya pretends it doesn’t mean anything.

I miss talking to you, huh?

How fake.

—

[Dazai, Chuuya: 23 years old]

When he met Dazai, Chuuya knew he was going to be his forever friend. 

What he didn’t plan was to end up having a crush on said friend, sugarcoating the memories of their childhood days, and end up pining like a loser after moving in with him.
Then, Dazai started dating Mitsuru.

The rest is history.

“Daz— ah. Here you are.”

When Chuuya finds him, Dazai is standing in Mitsuru’s kitchen.

It’s a common sight, by now: thick lashes, bright eyes, disheveled dark hair barely peeking out from a black cape covering the boy from head to bust. A distressed black shirt peeks out from under the cape, unveiling the thick pattern of bandages underneath.

He is holding a pack of gummy bears he achieved by going around trick or treating like the overgrown child that he is.

They are too old for that kind of stuff, in theory.

As it turns out, though, at twenty-three Dazai takes trick or treating more seriously than he ever did as a child.
‘But Chuuya,’ he said, too, slapping a hand over his heart when Chuuya called him a kid. ‘Now I know candies are expensive! This is free food we are talking about!’
No matter how much he wanted to, Chuuya could not fight against the stingy Mackerel’s ‘free food that would be otherwise expensive’ excuse.
Thus, he quietly sat back while Dazai spent his afternoon flashing dimples and chatting animatedly with their neighbors, showcasing his witch costume and charming personality. 

Thanks to the beanpole’s efforts to whore himself out to cooing grandmas calling his grown-ass adult act cute, they now have a life stack of free premium sweets. Chuuya couldn't care less, but Dazai's happy and... well, that's all that matters, in the end, isn't it?
That's all Chuuya wants.

Because that's just how Dazai is: the genius, the fuckboy, the friend. 
Sometimes, he acts like a child as if Mori never allowed him a childhood at all. Sometimes, he's a crafty bastard. And other times he's an unreadable book, too far away for Chuuya to reach, surrounded by a thick veil of sadness that nobody can penetrate.
But, just for tonight, he is the other half of Chuuya’s witchy costume. 

In Mitsuru's kitchen, though, the redhead is confronted with yet another speck of his boyfriend's personality: the sulky introvert at heart. 

“Hey, Chibi.”

“I was wondering where you’d disappeared to,” Chuuya says, pushing inside the room. He took off his hood almost the moment they arrived at Mitsuru’s house, but Dazai’s still in place. “Hiding away?”

“Kinda.”

Chuuya’s smile softens. “How’s your social battery?”

Dazai hesitates, picking at the bandages covering his palm. “Recharging. I’ll be fine, but I need a pause from… people.” With his free hand, he gestures at the living room flooded with their friends, food and pounding music. Then, he hands the bag of gummy bears to Chuuya. “Want some?” 

In lieu of an answer, Chuuya walks up to him.

His hands find the lapel of Dazai’s hood and pull it down, sinking in dark hair. Warm, comforting hands that have Dazai thaw under the contact, melting like fresh snow.
The sudden physical contact causes the brunet to slump forward a little, dissolving away his many masks.
The only one that remains underneath is Osamu — Chuuya’s Osamu.

This bright, beautiful boy with glossy eyes and unhappy pout and low social battery because he can’t stand being around people for too long. 

“Are you sure I can have one?” Chuuya asks, voice low. Surprise flashes across Dazai’s face.

“Why is Chuuya asking?”

“I thought you said you weren't sharing any candy.”

“Who do you take me for? That was for Ranpo-san. I’d always share anything with my pet shrimp.”

Chuuya snorts, pulling him closer. “Like you share the canned crab?”

“That is a work in progress.” Dazai rolls his eyes, but a throaty hmm escapes him when Chuuya’s fingers rub his scalp in circular, soothing movements. “Canned crab is hard to share.”

“Because you’re a glutton with eyes bigger than your stomach.”

“Chuuya~”

“Why are you suddenly sharing your candies with me, Dazai? The truth.”

“You’re no fun,” Dazai growls, plummeting forward and hiding his head in the crook of Chuuya’s neck, nuzzling there for a moment. He takes a deep inhale, and Chuuya feels his boyfriend will himself to see it through the night. When Dazai pulls back, his cheeks are tinged with pink. “Maybe I had too many candies and now I’m nauseous. A little.”

He says that side-glancing at the floor to avoid Chuuya’s gaze.
The pale linoleum tiles are soiled by crumbles of chips and stained by the vodka coke a bunch of drunk guests spilled before, but for Dazai looking down at the floor is still safer than meeting somebody’s eyes.

Just like when they were kids.

“Dummy.” Chuuya hums around a smile, raising on his tiptoes to stand closer. Their bodies seem to come alive with the proximity. Dazai bends, and Chuuya’s forehead rests against his — red and cool brown locks blending, fingers meeting, eyelashes flickering — and suddenly, obediently, their hearts are beating in sync. “That’s what you get for trick or treating and eating too many sweets.” 

Dazai scowls. The tip of his nose brushes against Chuuya’s. “Do you want one or not?”

“Fine. Gimme a shitty candy.”

“Say ‘ah’~”

“What?!”

Despite Chuuya’s scowl Dazai fishes a gummy bear from the bag and smirks, lifting his hand. “Open your mouth and say ‘ah’, Chibi,” he insists in a purr.

As he says that, he lifts a red gummy bear in front of Chuuya’s mouth.
He drives it in between Chuuya’s parted lips before the redhead can protest further, yielding under the request instead.
He feels the fingers under his teeth, grazing them gently as Dazai rests the gummy bear on his tongue. 

It tastes like sugar, Dazai’s skin.
Sweet like candies, sweet and comforting, like a magic spell pooling warmth and sparkles in Chuuya's chest and lungs.

He wonders if Dazai’s mouth will taste just as sweet, too. 

And perhaps it’s ironic that the brunet is feeding him tiny gummy bears.
Maybe it's just so them.
Maybe Chuuya can appreciate how well it fits their story.
Maybe it’s impolite toward Mitsuru that Dazai othered himself out of the party to lure the redhead into his arms for some much-needed recharge cuddles, but Chuuya certainly isn’t complaining. He likes it when Dazai needs Couple Time and tenderness to feel like himself again.
It’s sweet. 

“You’re ridiculous. You’re lucky you look hot,” Chuuya hums, husky, chewing on the piece of candy. 

Dazai smiles. “It’s Chibi’s make-up.”

“Hm. I’ll only take part of the credit,” Chuuya says.

Because Dazai is undeniably, breathtakingly beautiful as he places another gummy in between Chuuya’s lips with the utmost care. 

Dazai shines when he’s happy.

Throwing back his head, Chuuya sucks on his boyfriend’s fingers, hesitantly at first and then leaning fully against the other’s chest. Dazai feeds him another gummy bear, an orange one, and this time Chuuya nibbles at Dazai’s fingertips — he takes his time with it, leaving dry scrapes on the other’s soft skin. 

A moment later, the Dazai’s fingers are substituted by his lips. Gentle, eager lips kissing him tenderly, stealing a soft inhale out of Chuuya.

Oh, Chuuya thinks, dazed. He does taste like candies.

Dazai guides him against the kitchen counter and Chuuya allows him, tugging back at Dazai’s hood, fisting a handful of brown locks. 

When Dazai feeds him one last gummy bear, he’s grinning. He kisses Chuuya again while blindly placing the sweets on the smooth counter, nestling the redhead between his body and the furniture, cradling his head to guide him into a deeper, needier kiss. 

He always kisses him like they are alone in the world, like people are just meant to look away, and Chuuya loves it. 

When he acts charming like that, Dazai has the world wrapped around his little finger.

He can steal candies, smiles, hearts.

“Should we take it somewhere private?” Dazai hums, fingers raking through Chuuya’s loose hair. The gesture makes the redhead sigh against Dazai’s mouth, one hand grabbing the front of his cape and twisting the fabric around his knuckles to pull him closer.
He needs him closer. 

“I thought you were going to feed me candies,” he murmurs. 

Dazai’s eyes are lambent as they linger on Chuuya, and he lands another peck on the boy’s lips.

“That’s the plan, yes.”

“Then…”

“But I might have ideas.”

As he says that, he slips a thumb in between Chuuya’s lips. The sweet aftertaste of sugar, chemicals, and alcohol lingers on the skin. 

Grinning back, sucking on the finger, Chuuya looks up. He can mirror himself in the shiny irises of Dazai’s eyes, pools of gold and bottomless black that lure him in and swallow him whole. 

And he can’t wait to hear these ideas and how candies are involved. 

He actually would love to test them.
They should call it a night and go home. 

They should—

“ Can you please not make out in my kitchen?”

Immediately, almost mauled by the newcomer’s voice, Dazai pushes away. Chuuya feels empty for a moment— still lightheaded with kisses and sugar, but suddenly cold. And he knows Dazai only moved away out of chivalry, but he wants his boyfriend’s touch back.

Damn Mitsuru and her timing.

“Sorry,” Dazai says, rubbing his nape.

Mitsuru smirks as she steps into the room, tilting a red wine glass in the brunet’s direction. She is a very low-effort vampire, this year: meaning, she just drinks red wine and pretends it’s blood. 

“All good. I didn’t see anything,” she assures.

“Can you knock?” Chuuya groans, stepping away from the counter. 

His hair is a mess after Dazai ran his hands through it and he’s never been happier about a smudge-proof lipstick in his life, but he would kill just to have his boyfriend’s mouth back on him.

Mitsuru’s eyebrows draw together.

“It’s my house,” she volleys back. “I wanted a glass of water, not trauma.”

Chuuya scoffs. “You’re way too dramatic.”

“And you two should come with a warning.”

“We were just kissing!”

Well.
For now.

Mitsuru makes a face, puckering her lips. “Yeah, and you’re so happy.” 

For a second, Chuuya recoils. Is she unhappy because of Fujiwara, he wonders? 

He’ll thwack that jock imbecile in the face, if he has to — for his sister’s sake, and for Dazai too.
They all deserve better than the bullshit the overgrown bug has been spewing.

“Oi, why does that sound like a bad thing?”

“It’s just… You guys give me unrealistic expectations. And I can’t see my grumpy little brother being–” She gestures in their direction, causing Chuuya to place his hands on his hips and lift his eyebrows, waiting. “All mushy and lovestruck like that. It’s gross!”

“You are gross,” Chuuya volleys back.

Mitsuru sticks out her tongue. “You are.”

“Sore loser.”

“Show-off!”

“Old hag.”

“Ah?! Listen here, you shrimp–”

“Ok, children, that’s enough,” Dazai interjects, in a chipper, somewhat annoyed voice. His arms lace around Chuuya’s waist before he can walk to his sister and challenge her to a drinking duel. “We’ll be back in a second, Micchan. Chuuya wanted to film something for his followers first.”

Mitsuru blinks, gaze jumping from one boy to the other.
She seems to be considering commenting if it’s for Chuuya’s OnlyFans rather than Instagram, but then thinks against it.

Which is a smart choice, if you ask Chuuya, because he’s not above opening an OnlyFans with the sole purpose of annoying his sister.

“Be quick,” she says, waving as she walks to the door. “Ranpo is getting Kunikida-kun drunk, and they’re having a trivia battle. I actually came to get you for the show.”

“We’ll be there,” Dazai assures.

Then, on the threshold, Mitsuru stops.
Her gaze causes Chuuya to scowl as she throws a glance behind her shoulder, lips imperceptibly twitching up in a feline smile that always means trouble.

“Ah, Chuuya?”

“Yeah?”

“Mushy and lovestrucks suit you,” she says. 

Chuuya clicks his tongue, laying against Dazai’s side as he watches his sister disappear back into the living room, joining the party.

Maybe she’s right, he thinks, fond and annoyed and flustered. 
Maybe being in love suits him. 

For sure, he’s not eager to rush back when he has a drink and Dazai and the echo of the music in his ears — not even if it’s something as hilarious as seeing Ranpo obliterate a drunk Kunikida on useless trivia. 

Besides, Dazai has a point; he did initially intend to shoot a quick story to share his makeup.

The one good thing about being a mildly famous makeup artist is having people interested in his passion and getting to share it.

Tonight in particular, Chuuya wants to show off both his costume and Dazai. 

He wants the world to notice their matching eyeshadow, the red and blue of their nail polish, how Dazai’s high cheekbones seem chiseled in fine glass. He wants the world to know how their bodies seem to be pulled closer by an invisible force.

He wants to scream that their costumes are only a physical expression of a deeper truth: they are a set.

Their matching capes rustle as Dazai’s arms open to envelop Chuuya’s hips, the slightly different shades of black blending together.

Dazai’s cape is colder with a shade reminiscent of the sky just before dawn, dark and starless, with a blue lining on the inside.
Chuuya’s the color of a black flame burning in the night, with a rich shade of burgundy inside. 

He’s always been the red to Dazai’s blue, after all. 

(Fedya must have done that on purpose when he shipped the surprise costumes to Chuuya: two matching capes with D.O.A‘s elegant purple label sewn inside.

‘I had some leftover black fabric. Dazai, make Chuuya happy,’ the note said. ‘If he cries, you’re dead.’)

With a soundless smile, Chuuya crosses his arms and leans further into Dazai’s space. 

“Quick thinking,” he hums. 

“Sounds like I’m called a genius for a reason”

Chuuya giggles as he takes out the phone, softly elbowing Dazai in the ribs. 

“Oh, shut up,” he says. “You are a genius.”

“Hm.”

“My genius,” Chuuya insists. He smiles at the camera as he says that, holding it in front of himself and the other. 

Getting the ball rolling on social media is like second nature, by now. It’s easy.

Hold a breath.

Smile, wave, talk.

“Yo, guys,” Chuuya greets, chipper, keeping his arm stretched enough to focus the camera on both himself and Dazai. “As promised, this is my makeup for the night.

“And this is Dazai, the other half of my costume. Some of you saw him in this afternoon’s stories. I’m pretty lucky, he let me experiment on his face for our matching makeup.” Comments about Dazai pile up quickly. Chuuya smiles, proud of the buzz, and tugs the brunet closer to his side and into the screen. “Say hi, ‘Samu?”

Dazai sheepishly waves at the camera.

“For the record, Chibi bribed me into doing this,” he hums. 

Chuuya rolls his eyes so strongly he fears he will have a headache for the rest of the night.

He did bribe Dazai to take part in the live.
How he’s been bribed exactly, though, is just for them to know.

But, as he glances at the camera, Chuuya’s gaze finds Dazai and he finds once again the two children they used to be.
Once upon a time, them.
Just two kids always looking for each other. 

Because what a scary place the world would be, without Dazai by his side.

“I did bribe him,” he admits, with an indulgent smile in his voice. “I guessed it was about time I introduced you guys to this disaster of a housemate who, incidentally, is also my childhood best friend.” When he turns to Dazai, Chuuya’s heart skips a beat — he forgets to look at the camera, lips curling up. He can see his beam reflected in the eyes of the boy he loves; Dazai is smiling right back. It’s perfect. They are perfect. “He’s my boyfriend.”